


Abuelita y Héctor

by Quecksilver_Eyes



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: F/M, and her abuelita sings?, basically Victoria is a bit overwhelmed, bc change, protect the soft sad skeleton man, watch me cry over Héctor forever, when did this happen?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 12:48:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13077210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes
Summary: Victoria has always looked up to her abuelita who didn’t dwell on the derrochador who left her alone with a child, solo por tocar música. Her mamá had been a little girl with thick black braids, but estúpido hombre didn’t care, cared only for music and fame. And mamá Imelda rose from the ashes, her child on her back and she built a business that would last a century.“M'ija”, she used to say, when she was still alive and Victoria watched her work with awe, “nothing is more important than la familia.”





	Abuelita y Héctor

Victoria has always looked up to her _abuelita_ who didn’t dwell on the _derrochador_ who left her alone with a child, _solo por tocar música._ Her _mamá_ had been a little girl with thick black braids, but _estúpido hombre_ didn’t care, cared only for music and fame. And _mamá_ Imelda rose from the ashes, her child on her back and she built a business that would last a century.

“ _M'ija_ ”, she used to say, when she was still alive and Victoria watched her work with awe, “nothing is more important than _la familia_.”

 

* * *

 

 

His name is Héctor. Héctor Rivera. Victoria whispers the name as she works, the day after they sent _pequeño_ Miguel home, the day after _el músico_ glowed, almost withered away, the day after _abuelita_ sang, in a raw, scratchy voice, as if she hasn’t used it since she banned music from their lives.

He’s not like she imagined him, falling apart at the joints, barely dressed and barefoot. She has seen him, every year, when he tried to cross the bridge, hasn’t paid him more attention than she would any other _alma casi olvidada._ His bones are yellowing, cracking, he’d be gone before long. No need to dwell on it.

But he looked at _mamá_ Imelda with a gaze so soft, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, wonder etched into every crack of his bones.

 

* * *

 

 

Victoria raises her hand to knock on _mamá_ Imelda’s door when she hears a voice from inside.

“Imelda”, his voice is rough and heavy. “¿Will you tell me about our Coco?”

Victoria opens the door and glances inside.

Héctor stands right by the doorframe, his battered hat clutched in his hands. _Abuelita_ stands at the window, unweaving the band from her hair.

“She danced”, she says and her voice breaks. “She danced for so long after you left. That’s how she met her husband. I couldn’t keep her from _la música_ no matter how hard I tried.” She turns around and places the band on the table right next to the window. “When she was a girl, she’d often tell me ‘ _Papá volverá, mamá_ ’.”

“¿She did?” Héctor ( _papá_ Héctor, Victoria reminds herself, _abuelito_ ) puts his hat on the bed and takes a step forwards.

“ _Sí_ .” _Mamá_ Imelda smiles at him, hesitantly. “She stopped, eventually. I think she didn’t want to upset me.”

“I’m sorry”, Héctor says in a hushed voice. “I shouldn’t have left.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” _Mamá_ Imelda’s voice is stern and harsh, the way Victoria was used to hearing when she’d talk about _el músico._ She closes the door. This is a private _conversación._

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Victoria hears Héctor play is in _diciembre,_ when _papá_ insists on Christmas celebrations like he always does. As Victoria decorates the house with _tia_ Rosita, who is smiling and warm, like she always is, Héctor tunes his guitar and _mamá_ Imelda measures his feet. “¿ _Ay_ , have you not worn shoes in _mil años_? ¡Look at those bones!”

Héctor smiles. “ _Gracias_ ”, he says softly.

 _Mamá_ Imelda smiles and ducks her head.

“¿Where did you get the guitar, _señor_ ?” _Papá_ fumbles with the paper lanterns and pauses to look at Héctor, who is looking at _mamá_ Imelda with a soft smile on his face. When _papá_ repeats the question, he turns to look at him. “¿ _Señor_?” He laughs and tugs the strings of his guitar. “¿Who, me?”

“ _Sí_ ”, _papá_ says and coughs.

“Call me Héctor. That will get my attention more than calling me _señor._ ”

Victoria sighs. “The guitar. ¿Where did you get it?” She wipes her hands on her apron and adjusts her glasses that have slipped from the bridge of her nose.

Héctor chuckles. “I borrowed it”, he says. “A _conocido_ had a spare. ¿Any wishes?”

He is going to play, Victoria thinks absentmindedly as she stares at his smile, his gold tooth shining in the light. “I don’t know any _canciones_ ”, she says when he looks at her expectantly.

“Pick something”, _abuelita_ says. “Maybe one of your own.”

Héctor takes his foot from the stool in front of her. “¿Are you sure?”

She nods, a grim expression on her face. “I’ve heard _el pendejo_ butcher them long enough. Remind me what they sound like.”

Héctor smiles widely and starts playing.

By the time he reaches the second verse, eyes trained on his wife, she has gotten up, lifts her skirts and starts dancing, a serene expression on her face. He gets up, not a bump in his playing, and starts moving in unison with her.

And when they reach the final chorus, _abuelita_ sings with him, in her raspy voice, spinning around him. “The _loco_ that you make me”, she sings and laughs as he pulls a face. “It is just _un poco_ crazy.”

He touches her forehead with his. “The sense that you’re not making, the liberties you’re taking”, he sings alone, _abuelita_ too caught up in her laugh.

They finish the song, their voices mixing in a way Victoria hadn’t thought possible, Héctor, soft and warm and _abuelita,_ raspy and sharp and Héctor stops playing.

Victoria has to sit down.

 

* * *

 

 

Victoria has always looked up to _mamá_ Imelda, her strength and her _asertividad_ , how she carries _la familia_ on her shoulders, how she cares. So when she finds herself humming in the workshop, threading her needle through the rough leather, she presses her lips together. But when she looks up and sees _mamá_ Imelda, hammer in hand, smiling at _el músico_ , who has opened her hair and is threading his fingers through it, gold tooth shining, foot tapping, Victoria has to think of _mamá_ and her _coletas_ , and the swing in her steps, a swing Héctor has, too.

And if she calls him _abuelo_ the next time they speak, when she fits his shoes to his worn out bones and frowns at the tape holding him together, _bien,_ he says _nada_ and just cracks a joke about _los huesos_ and she rolls her eyes.


End file.
